


The Fires that Burn in Secret

by PuffleLock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, POV Sherlock Holmes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Top John, Valentine's Day, this started as a ficlet and now here we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 16:20:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17790710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuffleLock/pseuds/PuffleLock
Summary: It's Valentine's Day and a cold winter storm rages outside of Baker Street. John is out, leaving Sherlock to keep himself warm the best way he can.





	The Fires that Burn in Secret

Sherlock was awoken around nine in the morning on a cold, stormy Valentine's Day morning by a deep hearty shiver running through him.  It was that dreadful time of winter that Sherlock hated; stuck between the Christmas season, where the cold wasn’t as noticeable due to the festive spirit all around, and the real warm up of spring, which was still a just distant dream. The previous night he had been out, solving yet another case for Lestrade. It should’ve been an easy case, but John had insisted on being completely unreasonable and had refused to come with him. He had previously agreed to work an early morning shift at a local A&E for a collegue, since he was single at the moment and didn't have plans for the holiday. John had glared down at Sherlock, (which he wondered how it was possible, considering how short the man was) and would not budge, claiming the need for sleep before he had to wake at 4:00am for his shift.  Again, the dreadful inconvenience of transport.

Sherlock found something absent from the night. There was no excitement, no thrill, no flare of happiness from John’s praise. It was work - simply work, and tedious work without his conductor of light to guide his intellect in the right direction.  John hardly ever missed coming with him on cases anymore, and Sherlock found that The Work was simply not the same without him there.

Sleep had not come to him in an easy crash as it usually did after a case. He had stripped to his boxers, crawled under his soft, heavy bedding, but sleep evaded him. John had already woken and left for his shift by the time sleep finally did claim him. It was not a restful sleep, though. Troubling dreams supplied him with visions of John being taken from him. Sherlock dreamt of his army doctor gone and he unable to find him or catch his abductors. The disturbing images drove him to shift and twist violently in his sleep until he finally had kicked off his duvet.

Sherlock despised the cold, for as long as he remembered. He had always been a thin lanky child, never enough meat on his bones to keep the chill out. He dreaded winter and the cold, the snow, and the wet arctic winds that came with it. His aversion to terrible, fluffy jumpers was most likely a subconscious reaction to being constantly swaddled in them his entire childhood by his overbearing nanny (he had, of course, deleted the entire experience, so one can’t be sure). At least as a grown man, he had the wherewithal to keep himself wrapped in something a bit more fashionable; his precious Belstaff his constant companion to shield him from the cold.

Baker St was his home, the closest physical representation of his mind there was possible, but he hated the drafts and the cold that seeped through the old floors. This morning, having kicked off his duvet, he woke with a start; his nightmare, the door wide open to the drafts, the freezing room, and the rattle of a winter storm battering against his windows all conspiring to rob him of the little sleep he allowed himself. He scrambled to pull the heavy cover around him again, before curling around his pillow with his back to his door; making himself into the smallest ball of detective he could manage. He brought the blanket up over his head, and tucked his cold hands under his chin; only his eyes and nose visible.

Another set of shivers ran through the detective. The flat’s ancient heating system was not enough to keep up with the chill and his own body was not willing to work hard enough to create its own necessary heat. For a moment, Sherlock thought to yell out for John; he was obviously slacking on his duty of keeping the fire going. The blaze in the fireplace always worked best to chase the chill from the flat. He then remembered with a stab of disappointment that John wasn’t home; he was off being a dreadfully nice person, helping his fellow humans as he seemed perfectly content to do. How could John be out there; out in the cold with everyone else, when Sherlock needed him here, now?

Sherlock let his mind wander as he tried to distract himself from the chill in his bones. He thought about the slow, lazy nights with John in front of the fire; each of them absorbed in their own interests, but each quite content to share the space in each other’s company. He smiled remembering how diligent John would be maintaining the fire, especially on the really cold days like today. Sherlock believes that John liked the fireplace even more than he does, really. Though with John’s musculature and perfectly placed padding, the chill was not the problem for him as it was for Sherlock, though the detective had deduced that after Afghanistan, John’s tolerance for cold was significantly reduced. No, Sherlock had had a truly enlightening moment when he had realized that John had been raised without many of the things that the younger man had taken for granted. To John, the fireplace was a luxury, and luxury was something that he had been led to believe he would never have or deserve. Sherlock was content to indulge him; letting him build the fire as big and as often as he wished.

Sherlock could admit to himself though, he was not only deeply pleased to make John happy, benefiting from the welcome comforting heat of the fire, but best of all, when John built up the fire, it gave Sherlock the rare chance to watch John, doing something he loved, unabated. The army doctor focused all his attention on the fireplace when the occasion arose, and Sherlock could sit in his chair and watch; could let his eyes roam and catalogue the strong gorgeous man in front of him.

Sherlock’s primal lizard brain found itself excited to see John on his knees in front of him, all his attention taken by controlling the fire. Sherlock would watch the muscles of John’s back and arms, carefully disguised under his atrocious jumpers, as he grabbed wood from the pile, then added it to the fire. Sherlock would be hypnotized by John’s careful attention with the tools, building the fire to perfection, his gorgeous arse on display for the detective. This was a man who took his careful time with everything he did, not stopping until the job was done to his satisfaction. Sherlock was curious, but certain, that this would be John’s approach to _everything_ in his life.

The memory of John’s delectable arse bent in front of him brought extra heat to Sherlock’s cheeks that he wasn’t expecting. It felt good though; it chipped through the ice settled in his bones.  Sherlock found himself in this state more and more often with John’s constant presence around him. He did not often indulge himself though, as his ex-military flatmate had exceptional hearing and with much more experience in the sexual arena, he would know exactly what Sherlock was doing immediately. But now, with John gone for at least another three hours, he could allow himself; could warm himself as nature intended.

Thankfully, his hands had warmed slightly under the blanket. He reached down with one to rub the cold skin of his chest, brushing against his nipple, already hard under his knuckles from the cold in the room. He brought his hand up to lick at his fingertips, then returned to toy at the sensitive nubs; the slickness of his saliva making the sensation more powerful. He let his imagination wander; his mind's eye already replacing his own long violinist fingers pinching himself with the sturdy yet nimble surgeon's fingers of his best friend.

Sherlock stopped a moment, the guilt he felt when he indulged in pleasuring himself to the thought of John rising in him. He had learned to accept that what he felt for his blogger went well beyond friendship or even simple attraction. He had long ago accepted that he very possibly was in love with John, though he couldn't even say the words to himself. He knew that if his very straight friend found out that his freak of a flatmate wanked to the thought of him, that he would leave. He would be kind, he would be gentle about it. John would never hurt him intentionally, but he would still leave, eventually. Sherlock would lose the singular joy of his life, the closeness to that warm dichotomy of a human being, John Watson, forever.

In the end, though, he allowed himself his selfish desire. Sherlock let the guilt go for now. He knew it would return, but he couldn't stop the rise of arousal crashing inside him. He licked his fingers, wetting the tips again, before guiding his hands down under the covers once more. As he grazed against the sensitive nubs again, it sent a shrill jolt through him, straight to his cock. He saw his army doctor before him, caressing him, caring for him.

Sherlock’s other hand slowly migrated further south, seeking the warm center of his arousal. He palmed at the burgeoning hardness in his black boxers, his cock thickening merely at the thought of John's strong hands, equally capable of healing or harm, upon him. He teased at the waistband, fingers brushing through the dark trail of hair leading to his cock, seeing John's beautiful smile above him. Sherlock could imagine that sweet smile, loving but hungry, the unexplainable blue of his eyes warming him inside and out.

Still under the warm protection of the duvet, Sherlock wormed his long legs out of his boxers, so he was naked under the heavy cover. He felt the whisper of the cool material, but imagined the caring, skilled lips of his John running across his skin instead.

Sherlock ran the tips of his fingers along the underside of his prick, just knowing that John would tease, that he would take his time, build his arousal up. John would be a brilliant lover who knew that the journey was the adventure, not just the destination.

When Sherlock could take the teasing no longer, he reached out from the cover to his bedside table, pulled the drawer open to the find the small bottle of lube hidden in the back. When he was safely back under the covers, he uncapped the bottle and poured a small amount into his palm. He finally allowed himself to grip his length, squeezing just enough for some small modicum of relief. Because he was alone in the flat, he let out a loud decadent moan of pleasure, for in his mind, he felt John's fist gripping his sensitive flesh, not his own.

He oh so slowly dragged his hand up the silky steel of his cock, another loud lustful sound escaping his lips. Sherlock imagined John above him, caging him in, making him feel safe and warm and… loved. Loved and wanted, desired. Worshipped. He let his pleasure be known to the empty room around him

“Oh God, yes… please.”

The strokes around his hard flesh built through his tightened fist, before he rolled onto his back with a filthy groan and spread his legs wide. With a guilty smirk and a few rolls of his hips to rut up against the cover, he allowed his other hand to trail down from where he had been teasing his sensitive nipples. His eyes were clamped shut; he saw not his bare ceiling above him, but the burning blue oceans of John's eyes blazing down at him. He could feel John's hand, his fingers spread wide, dragging down his tight stomach, down, down, down; tickling past the thick hair above his cock, down to tease at the thin, sensitive skin of his testicles. The softest scrape of nails against his tightened flesh brought a desperate whine from his lips.

Sherlock twirled his finger down to his perineum, rubbing against the flesh to tease the tender bundle of nerves inside, lighting a sharp flare of heat across his body. He stilled his hand on his cock, squeezing the base of his hard length to calm the fire; he wanted this fantasy to last. He could practically feel John's breath against him, warm and inviting, calming him, centering him. He longed to taste him; taste John's flesh, the tea he had for breakfast still on his lips, the sweat of the day lingering on his neck. Sherlock wanted John… all of John.

Sherlock's chill was long forgotten, the air under the duvet now warm and wet from the sweat rolling across his skin. He found the bottle again and squeezed out a dollop onto his fingers, eagerly rubbing the liquid onto his flesh. He felt John rubbing his slick fingers down towards his twitching hole, eager, wanting to be filled by the Captain, His Captain, ready to be claimed, possessed.

“Yes, oh god, yes please…” The words escaped his lips without thought as he imagined John’s beautiful fingers teasing his hole.

Sherlock let the tip of his middle finger graze against his puckered opening, panting heavy and loudly, feeling himself flutter before finally allowing the tip to breach the tight ring of muscle. He pushed into himself until he was past his second knuckle, the pleasure of the burn and the vision of John in his mind pushing a great moan from his ragged throat, wrenching the name of his love from him.

“Oh God Jooooohhhnnn!”

The deep breathy “Fuck!” Sherlock heard from the open doorway stopped everything.

Sherlock froze, one hand still on his quickly deflating cock, the other, two knuckles deep in his own arse. He couldn’t breathe, he dared not move; his big giant brain stopped, frozen, offline, unable to comprehend that this nightmare was actually happening.

A second or an eternity later, slowly letting out the burning air from his lungs, his eyes slowly opened. Wishing with every fiber of his being that he was imagining things, Sherlock turned his head to the door.

To his abject horror, John was in fact, really standing there, framed in the doorway, looking straight at him. Sherlock’s heart began pounding against his chest, trying quite vigorously to break free and run away from the heartbreak it knew was coming at any moment.

Sherlock quickly turned his head back up to the ceiling; he couldn’t face seeing John looking at him after being caught like this. He started to move his hands from his prick and arse, when he heard the floor creak near the doorway.

“Don't you stop, Sherlock. Don't you dare stop.”

Sherlock’s mind flared sharply at the words, but he couldn’t hope to believe that he had heard correctly. Against his mind’s better judgement, his head turned to look at John.  

John had taken a step into the room, and Sherlock could see him better in the light. His eyes were dark thunderclouds and they were staring straight into Sherlock. The younger man felt caught, trapped by that gaze and it was intoxicating.

The floor creaked again as John took another step into the room. Sherlock caught a shadow of movement; his eyes flicked down to see the army doctor palming the straining bulge pushing against the front of his jeans, rubbing slowly, deliberately.

Another step and John’s eyes still stared straight onto his. His voice low and rough, John raised his eyebrow, “I said, don’t stop.”

Sherlock couldn’t say anything, his brain was unable to handle the simple process of speech at the moment, so he slowly nodded in response to his Captain’s command. Sherlock licked his lips as he wrapped his hand around his cock, already half-hard again from John's words, his movements unmistakable, even hidden under the cover. He slowly dragged the tight clench of his fist over his length, then back down, pulling his foreskin back, his eyes never leaving John’s. He watched the doctor lick his lips while Sherlock spread his legs wider to reach his arse again.  

Before he could reach his puckered hole, John moved closer to the bed, and in a low husky voice that Sherlock had only imagined before now, “What were you thinking about?”

Sherlock knew exactly what he was asking him. Words fell from his lips without thought. He would never have been so brave had he stopped to consider what he was doing.

“You, John, I was thinking about you. I was thinking of your hands. Your strong hands touching me and… inside me.”

John reached the edge of the bed, his hand still rubbing against his strained erection. “Then keep going, Sherlock. Touch yourself, think of me rubbing against you, feeling your hard prick pushing against my hand.”

John leaned over and put his hand on the edge of the duvet, the tilt of his head asking the question Sherlock knew without words. He swallowed hard before giving a slow nod of his head. John pulled back the cover back to reveal Sherlock stroking himself, his other hand gripping his leg tightly for grounding. Sherlock went to turn his head, shame starting to creep into his mind.

“Don't you dare look away Sherlock. Look at me,” John’s voice commanded.

John crawled onto the bed, kneeling between Sherlock's open legs, watching intently as the younger man stroked his cock. Sherlock tracked his movement, watching the soldier position himself above him.

Sherlock nearly came undone when he finally felt John's warm hands touch him. Rough, calloused fingers swept up his leg, skirting close to Sherlock as he stroked his cock, and continuing down to trail the sensitive flesh of his inner thigh. One hand then began a teasing trail up Sherlock's side, until he could lean over the younger man.

“These hands, Sherlock?” he said as he brought his hand up to Sherlock’s face and swept his fingers across his cheek, then over his temple. John rested for a moment with his thumb just below Sherlock's lip, his fingers teasing the stubble at Sherlock’s jaw. “These fingers? Do you want to feel them inside you, Sherlock?” he whispered lowly as his thumb grazed against the detective's open lips.

Sherlock answered by taking John's thumb into his mouth, licking and teasing at the calloused fingertip. He swirled his tongue, savouring the flavor and texture of John. The soldier let out a low growl as Sherlock lightly dragged his bottom teeth against the skin before he released John's thumb

John loomed over him, caging him in. Sherlock could feel the hardness trapped under John's jeans pushing against his arse, the rough material rubbing against his bare sensitive flesh as John slowly, probably unconsciously, rutted against him. Then, as he stared down at the detective, the fire in John's eyes cooled for a moment. He looked down at Sherlock with an expression of quiet fondness (no, that can't be) for a long moment, before he spoke, gently; a soft shadow of something like doubt cross his face.

“Do you want this, Sherlock?”

Sherlock is scared by John's question. He wants it, wants John so badly. He has dreamt of this moment for longer than he was willing to admit to himself. But he is terrified. This is only going to be a one off; Sherlock is certain. John was simply overwhelmed by hormones; he is a sexual man and he’s simply caught up in the moment, seeing Sherlock like this; he’s just giving Sherlock what he wants. He's Not Gay. He doesn't feel that way for Sherlock, not like the detective does for him. But Sherlock doesn’t care, because he wants this. He wants this so badly it hurts. If he did what he knew he should and walked away, he would never be able to live with knowing he had John so close but turned him away. Sherlock knew there would be pain; the heart wrenching pain of knowing what it's like to finally have John, in every way he’s never allowed himself to hope for, only to never have him again. He would have to deal with losing John when the older man came to his senses. He would somehow mix it up in his wonderful kind-hearted mind, thinking that he used the younger man, feel guilty for all of it until he wouldn’t be able to look at him without regret. Sherlock is truly selfish though, he knows all of this, knows he will likely not survive losing John, but he takes all of it, without regret, for just this moment of perfection. Sherlock wants to pretend for just a while, that the amazing man truly wants him.

Sherlock nods slowly, “Yes, John.” he whispers.

John lowered his warm body fully onto Sherlock, bringing his hands up to card his fingers through his curls. John slowly brought his lips down to Sherlock’s; the first touch an electric shock in the genius’ mind. John kissed him, slowly, gently at first, his lips barely a whisper against Sherlock’s. The detective believes that he will die like this, the pure joy of John kissing him, teasing like Sherlock knew he would. But when John pushes forward to kiss with urgency, capturing Sherlock’s parted lips, fingers against the back of his neck, pulling him closer, he breathes life back to the younger man. This man kisses with his whole body; every part of him occupied, intent in the moment. It is better than Sherlock could have ever imagined. Sherlock lets himself feel it, believe it, believe that this is not misguided, that John truly wants him, the man, Sherlock. He parts his lips, inviting, spurring John further. With a filthy, decadent moan, John claimed his mouth, kissing him fully, passionately. Their tongues danced against each other, each moaning his lust into the other man.

John is so warm, so alive; every touch burning Sherlock’s skin with pure desire. His prick is alive, harder than it’s ever been. Sherlock purposely slows the strokes to his cock, determined that this will last as long as possible. John's hands leave a trail of fire down Sherlock’s sides as the army doctor ( _his_ army doctor he says to himself) caresses him, before John leans up and turns on to his side, shifting to straddle Sherlock’s leg. He runs his hands through Sherlock’s hair, twisting through his disheveled curls.

“God, look at you, you bloody gorgeous man; my beautiful posh boy.” Sherlock stills as the words leave John’s lips. ( _My_ beautiful boy??) John’s hands trailed up his neck, then down, over his Adam’s apple, tracing along his collarbone, lower, circling his strained nipple. He kisses Sherlock again, “You brilliant madman, you've been driving me crazy on purpose, haven't you? Teasing me, always so close to me,  smelling so goddamn good; always touching me, wearing those sinfully tight shirts of yours. Do you know how much you show off that pretty arse of yours? You do, don't you? Do you have any idea how fucking difficult it is to walk around a bloody crime scene when you have half a fucking hard on for your goddamn flatmate?”

Sherlock stills; he is struck dumb, unable to comprehend John’s words. How could John be saying these things, that he’s thought of Sherlock like this before? John couldn’t be this cruel to him, to tease him like this. Unless… Could it be true that John has looked at him, at his body - his very male body - and felt desire… lust? Sherlock feels a tiny, microscopic flair of hope rise in his chest. John looks down at him, getting that worried crinkle between his eyes and moves his hand from Sherlock’s body.

“Hey, Sherlock, are you ok?” He looks with concern now, Sherlock not responding, still blinking up at him, trying to remember how to speak.

John lifts himself off Sherlock, rolling his weight off the younger man. “Oh god, Sherlock, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean… I thought… oh god.”

Before he could continue, Sherlock reached for his hand starting to cover his face, pulling it away to look at him, though John would not meet his eyes.

“You’ve thought about me, before?”

John turns to him, his eyes wide, bare… hopeful, “What?”

Sherlock is all in now, all the evidence screaming at him that he is correct, “I said, you’ve thought about me? Like this?” Sherlock emphasized his question by a long slow pull on his cock, a low moan spilling past his throat.

John’s eyes turned down to watch the younger man toying with himself, his mouth parted, before he closed his eyes, breathing deep. He let it out slow and steady before raising his eyes to meet Sherlock’s, his words sinking through the doubt that John seemed to be drowning in.

“Oh God yes, Sherlock, I’ve thought about this… about you. How couldn’t I? You are gorgeous and funny and smart. You are simply the most amazing, beautiful man I have ever met.” He spoke with a fierce, but gentle determination, his words pleading to be felt, to be truly believed.

“But, you’re not gay.”

John let out a chuckle, slowly shaking his head, all the tension and doubt leaving him. “No Sherlock, I’m not gay, I’m bisexual. I thought you knew that.”

Sherlock couldn’t believe it and before he could stop himself, a strangled moan escapes his lips. It was too much, the thing that has kept him from pursuing this amazing man was gone, never really there in the first place.

“There’s always something…” he mumbled, tossing his head back. He propped his head back up, to look at John and without further thought, he reached for him, pulling for John to come back to him. Sherlock’s arms wrapped around John’s shoulders to pull him down as he surged up to kiss him, to finally claim John for his own.

John met his fierce kiss with his own fire, each man giving and taking in a perfect dance of passion.  Hands - beautiful strong hands, hands of a killer, a doctor, a calm deadly wolf in comfy ugly jumpers, roamed over Sherlock’s body, touching, teasing, feeling him, making Sherlock feel wanted.

Sherlock broke from the Captain’s lips, his hands tugging at his vest, “I do believe I need to relieve you of these awful clothes, my good sir.”

“Oi! There’s nothing wrong with my clothes, not even a jumper for you to bitch about!”

“No, nothing wrong with them at all, John, except that you are still wearing them.” Sherlock caught John’s lips in a rough kiss as he wrenched the shirt from John’s jeans, only breaking apart long enough for him to pull it over John’s head. After throwing it across the room, he brought his hands down to squeeze John’s arse. Sherlock then scrambled to work the belt open, when he felt John’s hand on his, squeezing gently.

“Here, love, let me.” John sat up, quickly working his jeans open, then shimmied out of them, tossing them to the floor. Sherlock sat in awe, amazed at the tenacity John’s jeans must have had to have kept his arousal so restrained. He licked his lips, his mind already wondering what other wonders lay under the last layer of cloth. He was desperate to see, to feel, to touch. He wanted to lick, catalogue every taste, every smell.

The two men came back together with a crash, hands, limbs, tongues tangled in a desperate attempt to close any gaps between them; to explore, to feel. In a flair of pure white heated joy, Sherlock felt John strong steady hands wrap around his cock. Heavy panting breaths escaped his lips as the gentle soldier sat up, straddling Sherlock’s legs and began stroking Sherlock’s engorged length.

John pulls from him divine pleasure. He tugs easily, watching the younger man come undone beneath him. John’s touch is pure decadent pleasure that Sherlock’s fantasies could never have foretold. Somehow, John's hands know him.

These perfect hands have killed for him, cared for him, and stitched him up when he was broken. Why would it surprise Sherlock that these hands would already know how to ring every last drop of pleasure from him; that they knew how to leave trails of everlasting dragonfire across his skin.

When Sherlock couldn’t take it any longer, he pulled John down to a kiss, and then quickly rolled them over, surprising the older man. John’s smile was perfection as the detective looked down from their reversed position. Sherlock straddled him, let his rolling hips push their cocks against each other in a slow delicious motion.

“You are a miracle, John Watson. Now I must see what you are hiding under these pants.” He said as he palmed at the sizeable bulge in John’s y-fronts. “I have dreamt of your cock for a very, very long time.”

“Oh god Sherlock,” the doctor moaned, biting his lower lip, “You are going to be the death of me. Do you see how hard you make me? See what you do to me?

“Yes, John,” he said with a devilish grin and a deliberate squeeze to John’s cock, “But I want to see more.”

Sherlock crawled down until he was eye level with the obscene bulge at John’s crotch. He moaned when he saw the tip, the beautiful weeping tip of John’s cock peeking from above the waistband. Sherlock bent down and ran his nose along the long line of heat hidden under the cotton. He savoured the glorious musky smell of sex before a teasing tongue licked at the precome leaking from the slit, the sharp hiss above him just as much of a turn on as the taste of John on his tongue.

Sherlock sank his fingers under the waistband, and gently pulled the material down. His mouth fell open as John’s magnificent cock was revealed. He had always believed John would likely be above average, considering the way he strutted about (though the older man had no idea that he did that, which is what made it hot as hell to watch). Sherlock was very pleased to find he was right, so very very right. The length and girth of John’s perfect cock was impressive, to say the least. Not so large that he was freakish, but quite imposing, especially considering the man’s small stature.

After a long while a cataloguing the vision of John’s prick, which John indulged him without complaint, Sherlock finally reached to take his length in hand. When his long fingers met John's cock, the man below him let out a deep sigh, a moan to rival the most obscene pornography.  John’s head fell back, his hips rutting up to meet Sherlock’s strokes.

While his hand continued stroking John, Sherlock climbed up, wet kisses, nibbles and licks marking the trail up John’s body. Sherlock kissed and caressed, all the while pulling pleasure from John’s hard cock. He kissed along John’s shoulder, paying special attention to the beautiful scar that brought his broken soldier to him.  Continuing the kisses along the line of John’s stubbled neck to nibble at his ear. Before Sherlock lost his nerves, he whispered roughly, “John, I need you to fuck me.”

John’s head turned sharply, eyes blown wide, Sherlock feeling the deep trembling shiver that ran through him. John searched the detective’ face for a moment, but something in Sherlock’s expression told him everything he needed to know. He leaned up to take him in a kiss, fingers caging the detective’s face.

“Budge up, then,” John said as he reached for the lube, still laying on the bed. “Kneel over me so I can reach you.”

John opened the lube, smearing a generous amount on his fingers of his left hand, rubbing the fingers together to warm the slick liquid. With his other hand still caressing Sherlock’s face, he reached down, spreading the liquid over the younger man’s perineum, rubbing for a moment, then down further to tease at his sensitive hole. After a few slow circles, John finally slipped his finger past the tight muscles, both men gasping at the sudden flare of heat they felt. He slowly worked Sherlock with his finger, in and out, until a breathy “Please…” urged him to join a second finger to meet the first. Pushing, pulling, twisting, John carefully opened the man above him, another finger joining the first two. His preparations continued, building in strength and purpose, until his hands were driving into Sherlock so that the detective couldn’t control himself; he pushed his arse down to meet John’s fingers over and over, fucking himself on John’s hand.

After a moment though, John took his fingers from Sherlock’s arse, a wanton whine coming from the bratty genius. The soldier rolled the two of them over, switching positions again.

“I want to see you, you beautiful mad bastard.” He said with a raised eyebrow and a evil grin on his face.

John bent down, his arms caging Sherlock’s head, and he kissed the shameless man under him long and hard, breathlessly rolling his hips so their cocks slid together, a shudder of desire racing through each of the two men.

John took Sherlock’s hand, twining their fingers together, and brought their hands up so he could kiss at each of Sherlock’s knuckles. Then, as Sherlock watched, John’s eyes darkened, and he brought their hands down to where their cocks slowly ground against each other. He took the bottle of lube, squeezed a bit onto Sherlock’s hand, the younger man then scrambling to wrap his long nimble fingers around both their lengths, squeezing, caressing, filling each man with burning want.

John pushed up onto his fists, so he could look down at Sherlock, away from the deliciously kissable proximity of the detective’s mouth.  

In his soft but dominating Captain’s voice, John spoke, “Tell me what you want, Sherlock.”

Sparkling cerulean kaleidoscopes met heavy indigo storm clouds; Sherlock continued to stroke up and down both their lengths, wetness, precome, lube, all mixing in a filthy concoction to ease their pleasure. “I want your cock inside me, John. I want to burn when your prick slides inside my tight hole; stretching me, filling me.” He reached up to capture John’s lips in a brutal kiss, biting his bottom lip just this side of painful before finishing, “I want you to fuck me, John. Hard. please.”

Sherlock released himself to take John’s prick alone. The nimble younger man rolled his hips up and his hand down to drag the tip of John’s cock down his perineum before rubbing John’s head against his hole. John stopped him briefly with a hand to Sherlock’s sternum.

“Condoms?”

With a quiet sigh, Sherlock made a decision. His hand stilled on John’s cock to avoid distraction and he looked up at his army doctor.

“John, I don’t want you to use a condom. I am clean. While I am no virgin, it has been a very long time since… anything. I’m also tested regularly to keep Mycroft and Lestrade satisfied that drugs are no longer a factor in my life. I have my most recent results if you wish to see them. And… I trust you.”

John sees Sherlock at his most open, most vulnerable. “Of course, love. God, yes. Fuck, I can’t wait to feel you wrapped around me with nothing between us.

John took himself from Sherlock’s grasp, and continued the journey Sherlock started, guiding himself the rest of the way, pushing slowly, until he finally breached the tight ring of muscle. Sherlock let out a sharp hiss below him, a whimpered “please,” and John pushed forward, slowly, allowing Sherlock to stretch around him, the burn as John filled him flooding him with pleasure.

John finally bottomed out and lets Sherlock settle around him, until the doctor felt Sherlock relax.

The detective’s eyes suddenly bolted open and he stared straight at John, his expression open and full of trust and love. Sherlock gives him a small nod, a quirk of his eyes and a devilish grin. John slid out, almost completely, while grabbing Sherlock’s plush arse to lift him to the perfect angle before slamming back, brushing perfectly against Sherlock’s prostate. Sparks erupted in Sherlock’s vision. Bless this miracle of a man; John knew, his beautiful, perfect John knew exactly what he wanted, what his body needed. 

John leaned over the younger man with his cock still buried to the hilt, intertwining their fingers above Sherlock’s head, holding him there while his hips began a driving, relentless rhythm. Each thrust, each flex of his hips brushed against the sensitive bundle of nerves. Loud staccato grunts escaped Sherlock’s lips as John fucked him into the mattress.

John showed his strength and control as he rolled them, his cock never leaving the wet tightness of Sherlock’s arse. He flicked his eyes down, then back up to meet Sherlock’s.

“I’d grab the fucking headboard, if I were you.” He held Sherlock’s hips steady, driving his own up, circling, rocking into Sherlock, until he again hit Sherlock's prostate. The detective let out a strangled, earth shattering yell, his voice scratchy and sounding thoroughly debauched.

His Captain growled up at him, his hips not relenting in their thrusts, “Don’t you dare come until I tell you to. Do you understand me, Sherlock?”

“Oh god yes, John! Please, oh god, please! Fuck me, John!! Oh god, Fuck me harder!

Without pause, Sherlock felt John’s strong arms pulling him down to meet his thrusts, his fingertips leaving perfect bruises on Sherlock’s slender hips, the obscene sounds of their sweat laden skin slapping against each other filing the room.

Sherlock threw his head back, a voice below him, strained in his efforts, “Hold on for me, love, not yet.”

It was almost too much, Sherlock was so close, white burned the edges of his vision as he stared at the ceiling. So close but he can hold it for John.

Sherlock needed to see him, needed to look at the man he loved. Oh god, yes, finally, he can say it, he loves John. He loves this perfect man who is now a part of him, part of his soul.

Their eyes meet, and John let go of one hip to pull him down to a bruising kiss. They pant into each other’s mouth, pressed forehead to forehead, John fucking up into Sherlock’s pliant body, still with brutal thrusts. He let go completely to grip tight into Sherlock’s curly disheveled locks, pulling his head back so that he can latch onto his long slender neck. Between the sucking, the kisses, the love bites, John steers Sherlock’s eyes to his.

“Come for me, you beautiful bastard.”

His cock untouched, Sherlock came with a howl, shooting hot white threads of come over John’s stomach and chest. At the same time he felt the heat of John’s release flooding him,filling him. Each man let out hard cries of pleasure, loud enough to wake the dead.

Spent and trembling, Sherlock lowered himself to the bed, careful to lift himself off of John’s prick, his hole fluttering from being well and truly fucked. He rolled over, and sunk face first into the bed next to John, turning his head to look at John panting next to him. Once he seemed to finally catch his breath, John turned over to him, tucking his arms around the detective, pulling him into a warm gentle kiss. Sherlock would never have guessed that he would want to snuggle with anyone, but at this moment, he wanted nothing more than to lay next to John, curled in his loving arms. For once, the constant noise in his head was quiet, tempered by the kind-hearted man surrounding him.

Sherlock felt a soft tender kiss on the top of his head. He whined as John began to roll away from him.

“One second, love, I’m not going far. If we fall asleep without cleaning up, we’ll regret it.”

Sherlock turned his head to look at John, and sounding more unsure of himself than he planned, “But you are coming back? Here?”

“Of course. God, of course.” He kissed Sherlock’s forehead, then cheek, before placing a sweet delicate kiss on his lips. “I have dreamt of sharing your bed for a very long time, Sherlock. You’re not running me off that easily.”

John strutted off to the loo; Sherlock listened as he ran the taps, apparently cleaning himself off. He came back in, but Sherlock heard him stop at the door. He glanced over and was stunned at the look of awe on his army doctor’s face.

“What is it, John? Something wrong?” he said as he rolled over to face him.

John shook his head, and walked over to the bed, motioning for Sherlock to move so that he could clean him off. He gently wiped Sherlock down then threw the flannel to the hamper off in the corner. He laid down, pulled the duvet up over them and wrapped his arms around Sherlock.

“There is absolutely nothing wrong, love. Nothing at all.” He emphasized his point with a string of kisses up Sherlock’s neck.

“Then why the look?”

“Because I never thought this would happen. And of all days!” he said with a hearty chuckle. “How very cliched, huh? Like the set-up of some silly rom-com; coming home early on Valentine’s day because they overstaffed, seeing you, which, by the way, was the hottest fucking thing I have ever seen in my life. Here I was, hearing you moan, rushing back, thinking you were having a nightmare! A bit dramatic, but that’s us, I guess.”

“Well, you are the sentimental one, John,” he said with a sly grin. “But this is really something you want, with me?”

John pulled back, looking into Sherlock’s impossible eyes. “Yes, Sherlock. This is something I have wanted for a very long time. I just never thought you would, with me, I mean.”

“I do, John. I do. God, I look at you, and you are beautiful.”

John’s cheeks reddened with an adorable blush. “Sherlock, this may be fast, but… And I want you to know that it’s not the holiday, or the fact I am in the midst of the afterglow caused by the best sex I have ever had in my life… but... I love you. I’ve been in love with you for a very long time. I want all of this, with you, for as long as you’ll have me.”

Sherlock looked into John’s deep blue eyes, seeing nothing but the absolute truth, “I love you too, John. So very very deeply.”

The contented sigh from John was the greatest sound Sherlock had ever heard. He wrapped his arms around his sturdy little man, snuggling as close as he could.

“Now John, I know this will come as a shock to you, but I am thoroughly exhausted, and I think I would really like to sleep now.”

John answered with sleepy yawn that told him that he was feeling much the same way. “Oh really, the great Sherlock Holmes admits to feeling exhaustion?”

“Well, yes, and I do believe we need our rest for later, John.”

“Later?”

“John, it’s Valentine’s Day, of course there will be a later.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this started out a short little ficlet idea in my head, and now, here we are, 7k words later...
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day everyone! I hope you enjoyed it. Don't hesitate to drop a comment!


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